


In Hot Water

by ScoutLover



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aramis and Porthos Are Total Wingmen, Bathing/Washing, Blow Jobs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Every Puppy Needs a Bath, First Time, Hand Jobs, It's all about the Athos Angst, M/M, Or the 17th Century Version of Wingmen, bathtime fun, d'Artagnan Is So Shiny When He's Clean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 21:26:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5943667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScoutLover/pseuds/ScoutLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brush with nearly losing d’Artagnan causes Athos to confront his feelings for the young man</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Hot Water

**Author's Note:**

> This all started with [this photo](http://scoutlover.tumblr.com/post/138059624711/putting-this-beautiful-pic-of-the-puppy-here-for), and then went downhill on Twitter, as things will. I blame ChancellorFangirl and loveel-who. For everything.  
> Come visit me on [tumblr](http://scoutlover.tumblr.com/)!

The four rode through the gates and into the garrison, Athos in the lead, silent and stiff-backed, his hat pulled low over his eyes and casting his face into shadow. An almost visible air of tension and foreboding surrounded him, accounting for the distance between himself and the three men following him. He was practically _vibrating_ with anger, and every other Musketeer in the yard, no matter how far away, took an instinctive step back. Those sparring with swords suddenly and fervently prayed that Captain Tréville would _not_ assign his lieutenant to training today.

An enraged Athos wielding a sword was beautiful to behold. _Except_ to the poor bastard facing him.

Behind Athos, and at a distance unusual for them, rode his three familiar companions, d’Artagnan in the middle, Aramis to his left and Porthos to his right. The boy looked as if he’d been dredged from the bottom of the Seine, his hair and clothes sodden and covered in mud, his face, neck, and doublet stained with blood. He was slouched in his saddle, his dark gaze fixed on Athos’ rigid back, a look of abject misery on his young and filthy face, unhappiness written in every line of his body. On either side of him, Aramis and Porthos exchanged worried glances behind his bowed back. Porthos scowled deeply, brows pulling down low, and Aramis sighed and shrugged.

Once again, it would be up to them to fix this.

Tréville stood on the balcony outside his office, leaning on the railing, his face settling into resigned lines as he regarded his four best – and four most troublesome – men. As his gaze fell upon d’Artagnan, he frowned, then sighed visibly and hung his head, shaking it slowly. A moment later, he lifted his head, sought out Athos, and gave a sharp, beckoning nod.

Athos returned it with a bob of his head and swung down from the saddle. Handing Roger’s reins to the waiting Jacques, he turned slightly and flicked a coolly disapproving gaze over d’Artagnan, then shifted his eyes to Porthos. “I’ll report to Tréville. Get _him_ cleaned up.” He didn’t wait for an answer, merely turned abruptly on his heel and strode toward the stairs that led to the captain’s office.

“Yes, _m’lord_ ,” Porthos muttered under his breath, careful to pitch his voice low enough that Athos couldn’t hear. No sense poking _that_ particular hornet’s nest.

Still mounted, d’Artagnan stared after Athos’ retreating form, unable to bear the man’s silence toward him any longer. It was even worse than the shouting had been, and the shouting had been like a judgment from God. “Athos!” he called loudly, almost desperately. But the man didn’t answer, didn’t give any sign that he’d even heard, and fresh pain at the rejection tore through him. “ _Athos,_ ” he repeated softly, sadly, slumping further in his saddle.

Aramis and Porthos gave him sympathetic looks, as did countless others. Almost every man in the regiment had been on the wrong end of Athos’ temper at one time or another, his two closest friends finding themselves there with some frequency. It wasn’t a place any man wanted to be.

Aramis and Porthos dismounted, grabbing their saddlebags and surrendering their horses to stable boys. They waited for d’Artagnan, and, when the boy gave no sign of moving, Aramis reached up and laid a gentle hand against his leg.

“D’Artagnan,” he called softly, waiting until those dark, woeful eyes turned down to him, “let’s get you out of those wet clothes. I need to see if you’re hurt under all that mud. Let’s go to the bathhouse.”

The boy nodded faintly and slid down from his horse, then lifted his gaze again to Aramis, looking utterly bereft. “And Athos?” he asked softly, miserably.

Aramis started to put a comforting arm around him, then saw again the mud covering him and only patted his shoulder instead. “He’ll come around,” he said quietly, smiling gently, “you’ll see.” _And if not, then we’ll just pull him around,_ he added silently. “Now, come on, let’s take care of you.”

Porthos grabbed d’Artagnan’s saddlebags from his horse, then he and Aramis led the dejected, filthy young man toward the garrison bathhouse.

*****

As the boys who worked in the bathhouse scurried to prepare a tub, Aramis and Porthos pondered how best to take care of their charge while stripping off their weapons and doublets. Hanging his belongings carefully on the pegs set into the wall and then rolling his sleeves up over his elbows, Aramis studied the wet and mud-caked boy and shook his head.

“We’re going to need several buckets,” he decided. As Porthos nodded and moved off to start fetching them, Aramis raked a frankly disgusted gaze over d’Artagnan. “You’re filthy,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “You’ve got mud _everywhere_.” He poked at the boy’s befouled chest and grimaced in horror. “What did you do, roll around in it?”

D’Artagnan scowled deeply as he struggled to unfasten his stiff, muck-encrusted doublet. “I fell in, wrestled with a madman, dragged myself and his body out, remember?”

Aramis winced and shuddered. He wasn’t likely to forget. None of them were.

Working together, the three of them finally got the boy stripped down and tossed his clothes into a reeking pile. At Aramis’ nod, Porthos hefted the first of the buckets and poured it over d’Artagnan as the boy yelped. Another bucket followed, sluicing away the worst of the filth from the Seine.

“Bathing in mud rather defeats the purpose of a bath,” Aramis sniffed airily as the boy sputtered beneath another deluge.

“And getting clean before a bath defeats the purpose of a bath!” d’Artagnan protested.

Porthos snorted as he emptied the last of the buckets. “You’re a long way from clean,” he said, wincing in disgust. “You still smell like somethin’ that died under the docks.”

“Yes, well, _you_ pull yourself and a dead man through that muck and see how good _you_ smell,” d’Artagnan shot back, crossing his arms defensively against his naked chest.

“And if you’d listened to Athos, you wouldn’t ’ave ’ad to go in at all,” the big man said firmly, lowering his head to fix a stern stare on the boy. “’E ’ad a plan. Athos _always_ ’as a plan. Aramis was linin’ up ’is shot when you took off after Maixent.”

D’Artagnan opened his mouth to answer, but was cut off by one of the boys calling that the tub was ready. He exhaled sharply and stalked forward, stepping into it and sinking sullenly into the hot water, tired of defending himself when it all so seemed obvious. At least to _him_.

Aramis and Porthos exchanged wryly indulgent glances, then Aramis tossed a few coins to the boys and sent them away, deciding d’Artagnan didn’t need any witnesses to his sulking. His pride had taken enough damage for one day. Porthos gathered soap, sponges, and towels, and the two Musketeers went to d’Artagnan, kneeling outside the tub, and got to work cleaning their charge.

“I can actually bathe myself,” d'Artagnan muttered sourly as Porthos scrubbed a wet, soapy sponge over his back, shoulders, and chest and Aramis worked soapy hands through his hair.

“Of course you can,” Porthos said, consciously gentling his touch as his washing began to reveal the bruises blossoming beneath the grime. “We just need to see where you’re hurt.”

“I’m not–”

“There’s blood in your hair,” Aramis interrupted, carefully working his fingers over the boy’s scalp, feeling for any wounds. “You fought a madman and took a nasty fall into the Seine. So allow us to make certain you’re all right, or Athos will have our arses for neglect.”

“Like he cares,” d’Artagnan grumbled, staring morosely down into the water. He could still see the fury in the man’s face and eyes as he’d berated – _yelled at_ – him, still feel the sting of his silence on the long ride back. Aramis and Porthos had been none too happy with him, either, but Athos’ sheer _fury_ had stunned him. Much worse, though, had been the man’s stony silence on the ride back. He’d grown used to Athos looking him over, expressing concern about him, had come to treasure his warm glances and small gestures of affection and care. This time, though, the man seemed to have forgotten he existed. And it had hurt. “He probably wishes I were still at the bottom of the Seine.”

Aramis heaved a sigh and cast his eyes heavenward, uttering a silent prayer for patience, while Porthos snorted loudly and gripped the boy’s shoulder, shaking him roughly.

“That’s rubbish an’ you know it,” he growled. “’E was gettin’ ready to go in after you.”

“Probably just to yell at me under water,” d’Artagnan sulked, sliding further down in the tub. He would never admit it, but he was grateful for his friends’ attention. Aramis’ long, skilled fingers were working soothingly through his hair and against his scalp and neck, while Porthos was running the sponge in a slow, calming rhythm over his shoulders, arms, and chest. Against his will, he felt himself relaxing as his friends’ hands gradually eased the tension from muscles that had begun to ache from their tightness.

Nothing, though, could ease the ache in his heart.

“He’ll never speak to me again,” he breathed, feeling as if something vital to him had been ripped away.

“Oh, someone’s feeling _terribly_ sorry for himself,” Aramis crooned as he upended a brass ewer over d’Artagnan’s head to rinse away the soap and filth.

“’E does ’ave a pretty pout, though,” Porthos said with a grin. “No wonder Athos loves ’im so.”

“Yeah, _right_ ,” d’Artagnan huffed, lifting his hands to rub water out of his eyes. “That’s why he _yelled at me_ after I _nearly drowned_ – Ow!” he yelped sharply, flinching forward and shooting an accusing glare over his shoulder as Aramis found a sore spot behind his left ear.

“Sorry, sorry,” Aramis apologized, smiling ruefully. “You’ve got a nasty bump and a bit of a gash.”

“That would explain the blood on his neck,” Porthos said, remembering how the color had drained from Athos’ face when he’d seen that. “You’re gonna have bruises down your right side, some on your back,” he added. “No ribs broken, though.”

“Good to know,” d’Artagnan said impatiently. “Now you can both– Ow!” he yelped again. “Damn it, Aramis–”

“Sorry, another cut here,” the older man said, carefully cleaning the small crease in the boy’s scalp and examining it closely. “Nothing that requires needlework, though.”

“One less thing for Athos to growl at me for,” d’Artagnan muttered, though just now he’d welcome that growl. He’d welcome _any_ sign that he hadn’t driven the man away completely. “I don’t even know _why_ he was so mad! Maixent tried to kill Richelieu. He cut that priest’s throat just to slow us down. I couldn’t let him get away! I _had_ to go after him!”

“And all Athos saw,” Aramis said gently, turning the boy more to face him, “was _you_ , charging after and fighting with a mad, desperate killer, and then toppling into the Seine.” As long as he lived, he would never forget the sheer _terror_ in Athos’ voice as he’d so frantically cried out d’Artagnan’s name. It had been almost a howl, torn from somewhere deep within him, and it had chilled Aramis to his soul. “He had no idea whether you were dead or alive,” he said softly, seriously. He curled his hand around the boy’s neck and leaned close, peering intently into his eyes, needing him to understand. “He stopped breathing when you went into the water, and didn’t start again until you came out. You took twenty years off his life in just a few moments.”

“You _terrified_ ’im,” Porthos put in bluntly, laying a big hand on the boy’s shoulder and frowning deeply at the memory of Athos’ near _panic_. “Poor bugger probably ’asn’t stopped shakin’ yet.”

D’Artagnan gave a sharp huff of disbelief and leaned back against the tub, crossing his arms against his chest. Aramis’ skilled fingers were again working soap through his hair, but he refused to let himself be lulled by the soothing sensation. “He didn’t look like he was shaking to me. He didn’t look like he felt anything at all.”

“Oi, that’s not true an’ you know it!” Porthos scolded sharply, loyalty to Athos overriding his indulgence of d’Artagnan’s hurt feelings. “Athos _does_ feel, too much sometimes.” He lifted two brows and stared pointedly at the boy. “An’ we all know ’ow much ’e feels for _you_. You didn’t hear ’im when you fell, didn’t see ’im. Right now, ’e’s barely holdin’ ’imself together.”

“Yes, well, I’m sure a bottle or two will put him right,” d’Artagnan said sullenly, closing his eyes as Aramis rinsed his hair again. He knew he was being unreasonable – worse, he was being _childish_ – but he couldn’t help it. Athos’ anger had _hurt_ , and he wasn’t above lashing out when he was in pain.

“Oh, yeah, that’s _just_ what ’e needs,” Porthos growled, “to go off an’ drink ’imself into a stupor in some tavern somewhere as ’e tortures ’imself with memories of you _fallin’_ while ’e could only _watch_. That should do ’im a _world_ of good! Who knows, ’e might even manage to get ’imself skewered by some Red Guards. They’re bound to still be pissed that _Musketeers_ saved the cardinal instead of _them_!”

“And we all know how much they hate Athos,” Aramis added pointedly. “There’s a rumor that Richelieu has offered a promotion to any man who can kill him. Catching him while he’s drunk and alone and brooding would make their day.”

D’Artagnan’s eyes flew open and a sharp gasp escaped him as their words hit home. Christ, it would be _just_ like Athos to get drunk and, if not exactly _pick_ a fight with Red Guards, certainly do nothing to avoid one. _Especially_ in his current mood. “Oh, shit!” he muttered, suddenly scrambling to rise from the tub, only too familiar with Athos’ self-destructive tendencies and frightened for what they might lead him into. “He can’t– I have to stop him–”

“You see?” Aramis said calmly, setting his hands on the boy’s shoulders and pushing him firmly back down. “That is _exactly_ how he felt at the river.” He lifted two brows. “Now do you understand why he was so angry?”

D’Artagnan stared from Aramis to Porthos, suddenly realizing what they were doing, and sank down with a huff. “I hate you both.”

“And I had hoped a bath might improve your attitude,” came a cool, clipped drawl behind them.

D’Artagnan jerked around and shot upright in the tub, sending a wave of water over Aramis and Porthos. The two men fell back, Porthos yelling a filthy curse, but d’Artagnan’s whole attention was on Athos. “You’re here!” he gasped, a world of relief in his voice.

Athos arched a brow at him. “Obviously,” he said dryly. “I gather from your keen observational skills that at least you are not concussed.” He shifted his gaze to Aramis. “How is he?”

D’Artagnan scowled and set his hands on his hips, relief giving way to anger that the man was _still_ ignoring him. “ _He_ is right here and can hear you!” he declared hotly. “And _he_ is fine!”

Athos heaved a sigh of forced patience and continued to stare past him to Aramis. D’Artagnan exhaled sharply and threw his hands into the air, cursing under his breath.

Aramis rolled his eyes and rose gracefully to his feet, tempted to bash their heads together. He knew they each had reason to be unhappy with the other. But, _Christ_ , would it kill them to act like _adults_? “He is fine,” he sighed. “Some bruising, a few strained muscles, cuts and gashes here and there. Nothing that requires needlework,” he added before Athos could ask. “He’ll hurt like hell tomorrow, but, all in all, he is remarkably intact.”

Athos shifted his gaze to d’Artagnan as Aramis spoke, seeking reassurance that he was, indeed, well and whole. As his gaze drifted slowly down the boy’s naked frame, though, he couldn’t help seeing more than the bruises starting to mottle his flesh. One day, he knew, d’Artagnan would fill out into the full breadth promised by his wide shoulders. For now, though, the boy was long, lean, sinewy … _beautiful_.

“I am … relieved to hear it,” he said, his voice slightly breathless, his eyes following helplessly the droplets of water sliding down that smooth, olive skin. He wanted desperately to _go_ to the boy, to run his hands over him and feel for himself that he was well. _Alive._ But he clamped one hand tightly around the hilt of his sword and knotted the other into a hard fist at his side, ruthlessly forcing the urge, and all the feelings that lay behind it, back into the corners of his mind.

D’Artagnan felt a surge of hope as he saw the desire flare in those green eyes, then deflated when he saw Athos tamp it down almost immediately. He’d begun to see more and more hints of Athos’ true feelings for him lately, had begun to hope that maybe, just _maybe_ – But obviously he’d been wrong. Or perhaps his stupidity today had killed whatever chance he might once have had. He bowed his head and turned away, then stepped out of the tub and bent down to grab the towel Porthos had laid nearby, wrapping it around his waist.

Aramis watched him, saw the absolute dejection in every line of his body, and turned to give Athos a disapproving stare. He knew d’Artagnan had disobeyed a direct order down by the river, knew the boy had scared him witless, and knew Athos did not take either of those well. He also knew _why_ Athos had been so terrified, knew what his friend _truly_ felt for d’Artagnan and that he was waging a stubborn battle _against_ those feelings. What Aramis didn’t understand was _why_. D’Artagnan would be the perfect balm to his wounded heart, wanted nothing more than to _be_ that balm, if only Athos would stop fighting and accept it. Yet Athos seemed determined to keep the boy at arm’s length. Worse, he seemed determined to _punish_ the boy for the crime of having broken through the rigid barriers around his heart.

Aramis loved Athos fiercely, but there were times he could happily strangle the infuriating bastard.

Porthos, being Porthos, was less subtle. Getting lightly to his feet, he stared at Athos, his dark gaze impaling the man, and said in a low, quiet voice, “We all survived today. We’re all in one piece, all safe. Keep that in mind, yeah?”

Athos lifted his chin and scowled, not at all certain what they thought he had come here to do. “I shall try not to flog him _too_ brutally,” he said bitingly.

D’Artagnan turned around sharply at that, frowning first in confusion at Athos, then at Aramis and Porthos, confusion turning to anger as he beheld their guilty faces. “You don’t seriously believe he’d do anything like that, do you?” he asked sharply, setting his hands on his hips. “You’re supposed to know him better!”

Aramis had to bite his lip to keep from smiling as d’Artagnan leapt so immediately and so fiercely to Athos’ defense after only moments ago bemoaning the man’s harsh treatment of him. Porthos shared a knowing look with him and grinned, wiggling his eyebrows, and Aramis returned the grin with a smirk. D’Artagnan’s feelings might be as bruised as the rest of him, but his first instinct would _always_ be to protect Athos.

There might be hope for the two idiots after all.

Athos, too, recognized the shift in d’Artagnan’s attitude toward him, and gave the boy a small, grateful dip of his head, his own tension easing. He knew he’d reacted badly to d’Artagnan’s actions earlier, knew he’d allowed his fear to overwhelm him and goad him into harsh and hurtful words. And he regretted that. But the boy _had_ disobeyed an order, _had_ acted rashly, and could very well have paid with his life.

They’d had this discussion before. Clearly they were going to have it again. Probably for the rest of their lives.

“Gentlemen,” he turned to Aramis and Porthos, that single word, as ever, drawing their attention immediately to him, “would you excuse us? D’Artagnan and I need to … talk.” The last word escaped him on a sigh, his natural reticence making the very notion of _discussing feelings_ an intensely uncomfortable one.

But surely d’Artagnan was worth a bit of discomfort.

The two hesitated for several moments, each well aware of d’Artagnan’s mood and now trying to gauge Athos’. But as that elegant eyebrow flicked upward again, they sighed and nodded, knowing they had no choice. If needed, they could always pick up the pieces later.

Porthos went and grabbed his and Aramis’ doublets and weapons off the wall, while Aramis went to Athos. Stopping just before the man, he reached up and cupped a gentle hand to his cheek, gazing into Athos’ startled eyes.

“He’s young,” he murmured. “Remember that. And remember that he _does_ love you. As much as you love him.”

“I’m not here to hurt him,” Athos protested, stung that Aramis could think that of him.

But Aramis smiled softly, almost sadly. “Ah, _cher_ , I know that!” he breathed. He slid his hand down to Athos’ chest, over his heart. “I am far more worried about you hurting _yourself_.”

Athos stiffened, his eyes widening. Sometimes he forgot just how well Aramis _did_ know him.

“I know all this frightens you,” Aramis went on, dark eyes still fixed intently on Athos, and, as ever, seeing straight into him. “But don’t let that fear keep you from him. You need him. And,” he smiled faintly, remembering how miserable the boy had been at Athos’ treatment of him, “I think he needs you, too.” He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Athos’ temple. “Let yourself have this, _cher_ ,” he whispered. “It will be worth the fear, I promise you.”

Athos gave him a small, fond smile, warmed by Aramis’ concern for him. “You are incorrigible,” he said. “But,” he laid a hand over the one that still rested above his heart, “I shall try not to hurt _either_ of us.”

Aramis beamed at him and kissed him again, then pulled away. “Come along, Porthos,” he called happily. “It occurs to me that we’ve not eaten yet, and I am _famished_.” He suddenly paused, his whole face lighting up with mischief. “I wonder if we could persuade the cardinal to provide a feast for us? We did save his life after all!”

“Dear God,” Athos groaned sickly, terrified, as ever, by that particular light in Aramis’ eyes. He shot a desperate look at Porthos. “Please–”

“Eh, don’t worry,” the big man said, shoving Aramis’ belongings into his arms and then reaching up to clamp a strong hand around his neck, “I’ll make sure ’e behaves. Though, you know,” a slow, dangerous grin curved about his mouth, “it wouldn’t kill His Eminence to show us _some_ kind of gratitude–”

“Get out, both of you!” Athos ordered sternly, fighting not to smile at them. “I will not listen to this. I cannot be called to testify to what I did not hear or see.”

Porthos laughed and winked, then slung an arm around Aramis and pulled him along with him out of the bathhouse, the two plotting loudly the entire way.

Athos watched them go, half tempted to call them back. He was always so much better with them than without them–

“They’re good for you.”

The soft words startled him, and he spun around with a soft gasp to see d’Artagnan standing less than an arm’s length from him, those wide, dark eyes fixed intently upon him, the warmth from his body filling the small space between them. Athos lifted a hand without thinking, instinctively needing to _touch_ , drawn as ever to _feel_ the life that coursed so fiercely through this boy. At the last minute, though, his own reticence, his own _doubt_ , overcame him, and he pulled his hand back, once more curling it into a fist at his side.

But d’Artagnan sighed and smiled faintly, sadly, then reached down to take the hand between his two, raising it and gently uncurling Athos’ fingers, wrapping his own around them. “I could be good for you, too,” he breathed.

Athos exhaled unsteadily and shivered, tightening his fingers helplessly around d’Artagnan’s. He continued to stare into the deep wells of the boy’s dark eyes, his heart pounding a heavy rhythm in his breast, his soul suspended between one breath and the next.

He wasn’t at all certain when d’Artagnan had come to mean so much to him, when his fondness and friendship for the boy had changed into something _more_. Something _deeper_. Part of him whispered that it was shameful, that he – so much older, so irreparably _broken_ – would only ruin this bright and beautiful boy as he had ruined everyone else he’d ever loved. But another part seized upon that word, that _truth_ , and clung to it like a lifeline.

 _Loved._ God help him, God forgive him, he _did_ love d’Artagnan. And not even he, who denied himself so much else in this life, was strong enough to deny _that_.

D’Artagnan saw in Athos’ eyes the war raging in his heart and stepped closer, still holding Athos’ hand tightly in one of his. Slowly, slowly, he lifted his other hand to the man’s face, gently brushing his fingertips over a bearded cheek. He wanted this, wanted _Athos_ , had wanted him almost from the start. Something in the man – his courage, his honor, his nobility, even his sorrow – had called to him, had drawn him toward the heart Athos kept so closely guarded, so carefully out of reach. But d’Artagnan had _seen_ that heart in all the small smiles and countless kindnesses the man showed him without even seeming to know he did so, had heard it in the warmth of his voice when it seemed pitched for his ears alone. And when Athos’ hand fell upon his shoulder, when those long, graceful fingers curled about his arm or his neck or pressed into his back, d’Artagnan had begun to long desperately to feel them elsewhere, _everywhere_ , to know the warmth and care of Athos’ touch on every part of him, in the most intimate of ways.

And to give Athos his own warmth and care in return. To show the man who had lost so much that he could still have _this_. Could still have _him_.

“I frightened you today,” he said quietly, letting his hand drift down to rest over Athos’ heart. “And I’m sorry. That wasn’t my intent.”

Athos swallowed hard, again seeing the boy locked in combat with a madman and falling helplessly into the Seine. “You disobeyed my order,” he said softly, hoarsely. “Aramis could have taken the shot–”

“I know. Or,” he winced, “I know that _now_. I just– I wasn’t thinking,” he admitted with a sigh, bowing his head as shame at his own stupidity crawled through him. “Maixent murdered that priest right in front of me, slit his throat just to distract me–” He closed his eyes tightly and shuddered at the memory, still able to _feel_ the priest’s blood on his hands–

“Ssh, hush,” Athos breathed, taking the boy into his arms without thinking and holding him close, cradling his dark head in one hand and tenderly stroking his naked back with the other. “It’s all right. It’s over now. Maixent is dead, and you’re safe. That’s all that matters.” He closed his eyes and rested a cheek against the boy’s head, just breathing him in. “That’s all that will ever matter.”

D’Artagnan exhaled unsteadily, wrapping his arms about Athos and burying his face in the man’s neck, inhaling deeply the scents of sweat, leather, and gunpowder that clung to him. He clutched at him and pressed himself closer still, _needing_ to feel Athos against every part of him.

“You were so angry,” he muttered. “I thought– I was afraid– It hurt,” he finally admitted, sounding very young.

Athos sighed and pushed him away slightly, slipping a hand under his chin and lifting until the downcast eyes met his. “You frightened me,” he said softly, brushing the wet hair out of d’Artagnan’s eyes. “I thought I’d lost you. And,” his voice broke as felt again the agony of those long, hideous moments, “I couldn’t bear it. I suppose I … reacted badly–”

D’Artagnan laughed quietly. “You were a _bastard_! I thought you were going to flay me alive with your tongue. And,” he slipped his hands down to Athos’ trim hips, fingers stroking him through the leather there, “there are so many things I’d rather you do to me with it,” he breathed in a low, husky voice.

Athos gasped and stiffened as those words ignited his blood and drove a hard wave of heat through him. He trailed unsteady fingers down the boy’s face and gazed deeply into those shining eyes, feeling every measure of control he’d forced upon his desire fracturing beyond repair. “D’Artagnan,” he rasped, “you can’t possibly–”

“Can’t I?” d’Artagnan whispered, stepping closer still. “Shall I show you?” He leaned in and tipped his head, capturing Athos’ lips with his own in a slow, soft kiss.

Athos groaned and opened his mouth helplessly to d’Artagnan’s, unable any longer to deny the boy. To deny _himself_. His hand slid around to the back of d’Artagnan’s head, his fingers twining into his thick, wet hair, and he gave himself over to the feel, scent and taste of this boy, letting it all wash over him, wash through him. He moaned and shivered and clutched d’Artagnan to him, craving the taste and feel of him in every part of himself. 

D’Artagnan laved Athos’ lips with his tongue, found the scar that twisted through the top one and licked lightly at it, allowed himself to freely explore this man. He nibbled at the corners of his mouth, nipped down to his chin and along his jawline, delighting in the scratch of Athos’ beard against his lips and tongue. He slid his hands over Athos’ shoulders, down his back and over his hips, growling softly as his fingers tangled in the man’s weapons belts.

“Too many layers,” he muttered, finding the pulse throbbing beneath the flesh in Athos’ throat and sucking at it. He trailed his mouth downward and was thwarted by the scarf around his neck, wrapped long fingers around a belt and tugged impatiently. He lifted his head and arched a brow as he gazed into Athos’ glazed eyes. “It hardly seems fair that you’re encased in all this, while I’m only in a towel.”

Athos swallowed hard, his heart hammering wildly in his breast, his blood coursing hotly through his veins. He could plainly see d’Artagnan’s erection through the thin towel, was painfully aware of his own straining against his breeches. “You were in a bath,” he rasped, his voice strained and breathless. “I was in the captain’s office. The wardrobe requirements … are rather different.”

“But now you’re here,” d’Artagnan said with a cheeky grin. “So I think you can lose some of this.” He tugged at Athos’ doublet.

Athos hesitated, torn between desire and the rational, practical part of his mind that never ceased whispering to him. “We are in the bathhouse,” he sighed. “Anyone could walk in at any time–”

“Ah, that is a problem.” D’Artagnan darted in, kissed him again, then pulled away and moved past him. “But not for long.”

Athos frowned and turned to stare in confusion as the boy went to the door. Sudden alarm filled him as he envisioned the boy doing something very _Aramis-like_ and simply strutting out into the practice yard, clad only in a towel.

“D’Artagnan!” he called sharply. “What in God’s name are you _doing_?”

“Solving a problem,” the boy called over his shoulder. Stopping at the door, he made certain it was securely closed, then firmly shot the heavy bolt that locked it. He turned around, leaned one shoulder against the door and crossed his arms against his chest, grinning and winking at Athos. “Problem solved,” he announced.

Athos stared helplessly at him, seeing the glint of dark hair and eyes, watching the play of light and shadow over his long, lean body, the tensile coil of lithe muscles under that smooth, olive skin. He licked his lips slowly, a sharp hunger rising within him, everything in him craving this boy. “You’re a menace!” he snarled, his cock throbbing. “I cannot imagine why I tolerate your impudence!”

“Can’t you?” D’Artagnan pulled away from the door and uncrossed his arms, then started walking slowly toward Athos, his usual loose-limbed stride now a predatory prowl. His gaze locked onto Athos and held him fast, ensnaring him and sinking deep into him. “Then let me show you,” he purred.

And before Athos could move, could think, could even breathe, the boy was on him again and driving him back against the nearby wall, strong arms reaching out and wrapping around him, pulling him into that young, hard body, into that hungry, claiming mouth. Athos let himself go, clutching at and clinging tightly to d’Artagnan, meeting that mouth with his own and launching an equally hungry, ferocious assault upon it with lips, teeth and tongue.

“Ungovernable boy!” he growled into d’Artagnan’s mouth, his long, strong fingers raking down the boy’s back.

“Am I?” D’Artagnan slid his hands down to Athos’ waist and began stripping him of weapons and belts. When the man was disarmed, he turned his attention to Athos’ fine doublet and the many buttons that secured it. With each button he slipped free, he delivered a soft, sweet kiss, brushing his lips over Athos’ mouth, his cheeks, his jawline, his throat, feeling the man trembling against him. “I suppose I am,” he breathed.

Athos couldn’t keep his hands from the boy, was driven by his need to touch, to stroke, to caress, to _claim_. For long, terrifying moments today he’d thought d’Artagnan lost to him, had watched in soul-chilling _horror_ as the boy had plunged into the Seine in the clutches of a madman. For those endless, unbearable moments, his whole world had _stopped_ , and everything in him had gone cold and still. He’d known that awful stillness, that utter _emptiness_ , once before, and had very nearly lost himself to it. He would not survive it again.

So he needed now to convince himself that he _hadn’t_ lost d’Artagnan, that the boy still lived and breathed, and that he could as well. He swept his hands over every part of d’Artagnan that he could, down his back, over his shoulders, through his hair, kissed him deeply, hungrily, tenderly one moment, desperately the next. D’Artagnan was life itself, and he breathed that life into every part of himself.

“It’s all right,” d’Artagnan whispered against his mouth, easing his doublet from him and dropping it to the floor, understanding what lay behind the man’s urgency. Understanding _Athos_. “I’m here.” He unwound the scarf from his neck and let it fall to the ground, then tugged off Athos’ shirt and ran his hands over his naked flesh, letting the man feel _his_ warmth as well. “I’m here. I’m safe. I’m still here with you.”

Athos exhaled unsteadily and dropped his head to d’Artagnan’s shoulder, closing his eyes and just holding him, just letting himself have _this_. “Tell me I am not … overstepping my bounds,” he pleaded softly. “Tell me I am not taking advantage–”

“You are not _taking_ anything,” d’Artagnan assured him. “I _give_ myself to you, freely. As I hope you will give yourself to me.”

Athos gave a small, choked laugh and lifted his head, green eyes wide and dark with feeling. With _need_. “I don’t think I have a choice,” he rasped. “I think … I have already.”

“Mmm. Then perhaps,” a small, wicked grin teased d’Artagnan’s lips, “we should complete the … transaction.” He leaned forward and reclaimed Athos’ lips with his, then slipped a hand between their bodies, brushing his fingers over the man’s erection.

Athos gasped harshly and shuddered convulsively as a white-hot current shot through him, jolting along every nerve and turning his blood to liquid fire. His knees threatened to buckle beneath him and he clutched frantically at d’Artagnan, clinging to the boy to hold himself upright.

D’Artagnan chuckled softly and kissed Athos as he stroked him, delighting in the small, wordless sounds of pain and pleasure he wrung from the usually stoic man. His long, nimble fingers worked at the buttons of Athos’ breeches, unfastening one after another, until the man’s thick erection sprang free, already weeping through the linen of his braies. “There you are,” he breathed, unlacing the undergarment and closing his fingers about the hard flesh, stroking lightly and tearing another anguished sound from Athos.

“Please!” Athos gasped, not at all certain just what he was pleading _for_. His heart was hammering fiercely in his chest, his blood pounding through his veins, his cock throbbing against d’Artagnan’s fingers. He wanted, _needed_ , feared he would die if the boy did not take this agony from him soon.

“It’s all right,” d’Artagnan murmured. “I’m here. I’ve got you.” He slipped his hands into the waist of Athos’ breeches and began to push them and his braies down his hips and legs, going down to his own knees with them. Gently urging Athos to step out of them, not wanting the man to trip himself and fall, he reached up for Athos’ hands and set them on his shoulders, wincing as those strong swordsman’s fingers dug in fiercely, then looked up, dark eyes luminous as they caught and held the other man’s. “Trust me?” he whispered.

Athos stared down at the beautiful boy kneeling before him and felt something deep within him break open. “With all that I am,” he breathed.

D’Artagnan smiled brilliantly, feeling as if the whole world had just been offered to him. “Then hold onto me,” he urged, “and know that I will never let you fall.”

Athos wanted to answer, opened his mouth to answer, but all words deserted him as d’Artagnan bowed his head and pressed his face into his crotch, nuzzling into the tight curls there and licking along the crease between groin and thigh. He cried out thickly and shuddered heavily, driving his head back against the wall and his fingers into d’Artagnan’s shoulders, the world pitching wildly beneath his feet. The boy’s mouth brushed against his balls, tongue flicking against the heavy sacs and wringing another anguished sound from him, and then d’Artagnan was licking along the underside of his throbbing, needy cock from base to tip and lapping cat-like at the cum leaking from it. Athos couldn’t see, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything save clutch at the boy and rut mindlessly against that tormenting mouth.

D’Artagnan laved his tongue against the head of Athos’ thick and weeping cock, delighting in the taste and feel of the man. But he wanted more, _much_ more, and, unable any longer to deny himself, opened his mouth and took Athos whole. Athos bucked and d’Artagnan clamped his hands hard against his hips to hold him still, hard enough to bruise, and set about shattering the man. He started slowly at first, mouth moving up and down him, lips and tongue working in perfect concert, teeth scraping lightly against his length. He gradually quickened his rhythm and began to suck, his own cock twitching and aching as he feasted upon the older man.

Athos wasn’t going to last, he knew it. In the five years since … _her_ … he’d allowed himself precious little comfort, precious little _relief_ , once or twice drunkenly seeking solace in a whore, usually relying on his own hand. But he’d grown more accustomed simply to denying himself, punishment for the indulgence in passion that had led to his ruin. He’d thought himself used to doing without.

But now – God, _now_ – d’Artagnan was raising such a storm of pain and pleasure in him, of want and need and _love_ , that he feared he would break wide open from its force. The boy’s hands scorched him where they gripped him, that mouth wrenched and wrung him from the inside out, and all at once it was too much. The storm rose again, howled and broke, and Athos could do nothing but clutch at d’Artagnan and shake almost apart as he came in a shattering rush.

D’Artagnan held him and sucked and licked at him until he was spent, swallowing his release in its entirety. As Athos wilted in his mouth, he released him and surged to his feet, crushing his mouth to the older man’s in a desperate, diving kiss. The taste of Athos’ seed and the heat of his body enflamed him, sharpened and intensified his own hunger, and he drove his hands into Athos’ hair and sought to drown himself in the man’s mouth, his every nerve on fire.

Athos felt the boy’s hardness thrusting into him, felt his desperation against him. Wanting, _needing_ , to return what d’Artagnan had given him, he closed a hand around his thick shaft, fingers stroking and squeezing, and closed the other about his balls, squeezing them as he firmly worked the boy’s cock.

D’Artagnan was gasping and groaning and thrusting against him, hips rocking urgently back and forth, that beautiful face screwed into a mask of tortured ecstasy. Athos tore his mouth from the boy’s with a growl and drove it downward, biting hard into the junction of shoulder and neck, and d’Artagnan came into his hands with a fierce spasm and a wordless cry.

They slumped into each other, sweating and shaking and gasping for breath, and, taking the boy’s weight against himself, Athos slid slowly, carefully down the wall until he collided gratefully with the ground. D’Artagnan murmured senselessly and tried to pull away, but Athos only tightened his arms about him and held him close, cradling the dark ahead against his shoulder and that wiry body to his chest. And he who held himself so aloof from others now let himself delight in the simple pleasure of feeling this boy’s weight and warmth against him.

“Dear God,” he whispered, his voice thick and hoarse, “what have you done to me?”

D’Artagnan shifted slightly, slipped a hand to Athos’ chest, over his heart, and lifted his head and smiled gently. “Made up for scaring you earlier?” he teased lightly.

Athos gave a small, shaky laugh, then leaned forward and kissed him softly. “You scare me every day,” he admitted. “I am not … accustomed to this. I have forgotten–”

“Ssh.” D’Artagnan laid a finger over his mouth to silence him, dark eyes shining. “I’ll remind you, if you’ll only let me.”

Athos huffed softly at that and arched a brow. “Can I stop you?”

D’Artagnan grinned broadly, brilliantly, and darted in to kiss him. “Not a chance!” he laughed.

Athos scowled sternly. “Impertinent boy,” he scolded, though the effect was ruined when he lifted a hand and tenderly brushed the hair out of d’Artagnan’s eyes. “And,” he grimaced down at the sticky seed drying between their bodies, “you have made quite the mess.”

“Hm.” D’Artagnan kissed him again, then pulled out of his arms and scrambled to his feet. “Fortunately for you,” he held a hand down to Athos and winked, “I know where there’s a tub of water. It’ll be a bit cold by now, but I’m sure we can warm it up.”

Athos stared up at him, into those brilliant eyes, and lifted a hand helplessly, closing his fingers about d’Artagnan’s and letting the boy pull him to his feet.

“Yes,” he breathed, a slow and utterly contented smile spreading across his face, “I’m sure we can.”

_The End_


End file.
